


Spandex and Sunflower Daze

by eliza_patton



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: (it'll make sense), (they're investigating drug dealers), Angst, BAMF Peter Parker, Dead May Parker (Spider-Man), Drug Use, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Happy Ending, Hurt Peter Parker, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Mentioned Skip Westcott, Past Rape/Non-con, Protective Wade Wilson, Rape/Non-con Elements, Secret Identity, Secret Identity Fail, Slow Burn, Stripper Peter Parker, Strippers & Strip Clubs, Undercover
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-19
Updated: 2021-01-19
Packaged: 2021-03-18 02:14:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28859409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eliza_patton/pseuds/eliza_patton
Summary: After finding dozens of dead bodies around Bright Lights Club, Peter decides to go undercover as a stripper. But when a certain mercenary shows up and threatens to undo everything he's worked for, Peter's forced to make a choice: work with Deadpool or give it all up. They start working together, despite Peter's reluctance to let anyone into his life after Aunt May's death and Gwen's move out west. Whatever. It'll be fine. All he has to do is promise himself that no matter how hot Deadpool looks in that spandex, he can't make a move.So what if promises are meant to be broken, right?Or: in which Peter's a (reluctant but very talented) stripper, Deadpool's protective, and if nothing else, at least they have each other for when things go bad. And they do.
Relationships: Peter Parker/Wade Wilson
Comments: 6
Kudos: 94





	Spandex and Sunflower Daze

**Author's Note:**

> Hey everyone! This is going to be a relatively long work, and definitely not one for the faint of heart. I've done my best to tag anything that will come up, but if I've missed something DO NOT HESITATE to let me know! If there's a particularly heavy topic in a chapter, I'll also warn everyone in the chapter notes. If nothing else I can promise you that there will be a happy ending! Eventually! Now, on with the show.

As a kid, Peter had not thought he’d end up a stripper in his twenties. Grad school? Yeah, he’d planned on that one. Marrying Gwen? Another _yes please_ in the books. Going to Aunt May’s and Uncle Ben’s fiftieth wedding anniversary? It had been as good as definite.

And then, of course, Uncle Ben died, Peter got spider-powers, and Gwen moved to California the year they graduated high school. Aunt May died a few years later, and Peter’s grown into a friendly, neighborhood super-hero.

So, yeah, he’s a stripper.

It’s not ideal. But it’s been paying the bills the past few months and besides, it’s not just a paycheck. He’s found nearly a dozen corpses within two miles of Bright Lights Club on patrols throughout the last year. Something’s not right, and when something’s not right Spider-Man swoops in. Or in this case, seductively-strips-in. Whichever. It only took two months for Peter to begin to unwrap the seedy underbelly, but illegal prostitution still doesn’t explain the bodies or the absolute teeming wealth found in the place, so he’s stuck. 

Tonight, the club is absolutely bustling. Peter’s strong, he knows that, but he’s still too small to see over most of the crowd that’s breathing loud, practically screaming in each other’s ears, dressed to the nines. The girls are glittering and the men—god, so many men—are decked out in fine button-downs and slicked-back hair, their hands dotted with wedding rings that the older ones don’t bother to remove. They _ooze_ money.

Pushing through the throng of people, he adjusts his skimpy outfit. Boss insisted on something a bit more revealing after last month’s performance—he’s been here too long to keep getting away with acting shy, so he was forced to relent. 

That’s why he’s stuck in skin-tight black shorts—emphasis on the _short_ —and nothing else, save for his winning smile. There are a few people on the stage right now he recognizes, but no one he knows well. The club switches around shifts easily and employs dozens of dancers. It’s a common tactic for places like this. Rope enough people into your prostitution scheme and it gets a lot harder to dismantle. It’s made impossible by the fact that they don’t encourage comradery between their employees.

“Peter!” A finger taps his bare shoulder and he swivels, heart jumping as he curses his spidey-sense. What good are superpowers if they’re unreliable? 

“Yeah?” He hollers over the music, leaning up to hear Wren’s words. Wren’s runs this shindig—no one gets scheduled without her approval and she rules over her dancers with an iron fist. Peter’s gotten on her bad side more than once and it’s not an experience he’s excited to repeat.

“You’re wanted upstairs! New client, wanted a new body. None of the regular guys. You up for it?” 

Peter’s stomach sank down to his knees. He figured this was coming, it’s been months. But he’s still not sure he’s ready for this. 

Prostitution. 

Jesus Christ. Being a stripper for the good of the community is one thing, but this? Proffering himself up to a stranger who wants “a new body?” But . . . he hasn’t made any progress on the shady shit Bright Lights Club has been getting up to yet. He needs to move up the ranks if this is going to be worth it, and this is the first in he’s been given. Fuck.

“Yeah,” he agrees loudly, ignoring the screaming protesting voice in the back of his head. “I’m down, for sure. Hell yeah. Which room?” 

At least with the music pounding deep in his ribcage, she can’t hear his terrified heartbeat. 

“213,” she yells back, and then sends him on his way with a slap to his ass. He tries not to be offended. After all, that’s the least of his worries, isn’t it? Anyway, he’s already got a few bruises from a few guys who got altogether too handsy after he came off the stage an hour or two ago. They’ll heal up quick, but he knows his healing factor works much better when there’s food on his table. Food means money. And money means working here, for the time being. There’s nothing else for it. 

The second he leaves the first floor, the noise becomes blessedly more manageable. His powers might help him on the stage, but everywhere else in the club is a nightmare for his over-sensitive everything. The flashing lights, the cacophony, the overwhelming smell of a hundred colognes mixing with each other. Fighting the urge to take a deep breath, Peter hooks his fingers in the booty shorts to hike them up and then he makes his way down the hallway, slowing to a terrifying stop in front of door 214. 

Bright Lights Club isn’t an old fashioned joint. The floor beneath his strappy shoes shone dark, gleaming with a fresh coat of wax for the summer season. The walls are another heavy red shade, overbearing and haughty. Lifting a fist he pretended wasn’t shaking, Peter raps his knuckles against the sleek black door. 

_Breath in, out. In, out. In—_ shit.

The door swung open and instead of a face, Peter is met with a chest. No—not just a chest. It’s a motherfucking masterpiece, all muscle and strength wrapped tight beneath tight red spandex. Wait. No. _No._

He traces the chest up, finding the absolute last mask he wanted waiting for him. In an instant, his fear quadruples and sweat gathers on his palms.

“What the fuck?” 

Deadpool’s voice floats down as the eyes on the mask widen comically, staring at Peter. He has never sympathized more with deers in headlights.

“You’re, like, twelve,” Deadpool says next and suddenly Peter’s a lot less stressed and a lot more annoyed. 

“I’m, like, twenty-two,” he snaps back, stepping into the room. Deadpool takes two steps back, letting him in, but scoffs.

“Want to run that by me again?”

“It’s true,” Peter lies. It’s not. He’s twenty, but Deadpool— _Deadpool!_ —doesn’t need to know that. The door closes behind them and a bit of that acrid nervousness creeps back into Peter’s limbs, stifling the anger as his gaze slowly swallows up Deadpool’s massive body. 

“How . . . how do you want me?” Peter tries after an awkward beat. It’s strange, honestly. He’s not sure he’s ever heard this much silence from Deadpool. 

“Kid, I’m not going to fuck you,” Deadpool snorts. Peter flushes at the word.

“What?” 

“Look, it’s not that I don’t think you’re hot,” Deadpool says placatingly. “Babe, look at yourself. You’re the fucking definition of beautiful. Those eyes—ha! But no. I’m not here to fuck anyone, even if they do look at me the way you are.”

Peter doesn’t know how it’s possible, but his blush gets worse.

“I mean,” Deadpool continues, and now that he’s rambling, he’s more like the guy Peter knows. “It’s not that I don’t support sex workers, obviously. Look at me! How else do you think I get my dick wet?”

 _Easily,_ comes the answer unbidden to Peter’s mind. The way Deadpool’s ass looks in spandex is not low on the list of reasons he likes doing patrols with him.

“But I’m here on a case. It’s not your fault, gorgeous.” 

Peter is astounded at how easily the pet names fall out of his mouth, but more furious with himself for enjoying the way they sound. 

“Unless,” Deadpool’s voice cuts through the noise in his head, “you’re not doing this voluntarily. I mean, I can tell you’re new, but have you ever done this before? Do you _want_ to be doing this?”

As he speaks, his voice gets darker and darker, leaving the realm of fun and raunchy one-offs to something that sends shivers down Peter’s spine and reminds him once again that he’s so fucking glad Deadpool is on _his_ side. Either way, he flinches at the question. 

Does he want to be here? He’s not sure.

The non-answer is enough for Deadpool. His white eyes narrow in his mask. “You don’t, do you.” It’s not a question. “Fucking hell. That’s what I get for trying to investigate this place. Now I’ve got to take care of him—this is just—fuck. Fucking hell,” he says again, staring at Peter, raking his gaze from the bottom of his feet up past his thin black shorts and all the way over his naked torso. 

“Are those bruises?”

“No,” Peter lies for the second time that night but this time, he knows it’s not enough. 

“What did I say about the fucking lying?” Deadpool growls, at once stalking through the room, katanas strapped to his back.

“Where are you going?” He hates the way his voice squeaks out the question.

“Your boss’s office, of course” he answers, voice like ice. It’s the wrong answer. 

“We are _not_ going to his office,” Peter insists. “No, no way. Deadpool—no—we are not.”

There’s no slow in his walk as he asks, “Oh, you know my name? Big fan, are you?”

“I mean—it’s not that it’s just—no—stop distracting me! We aren’t going. You _can’t._ Please, don’t, don’t ruin this.”

“You can’t stop me,” Deadpool insists. He’s right. They’re halfway down the hallway at this rate and two of the six doors they’ve passed have _do not disturb_ placards hanging from the doorknob. Each one makes Deadpool’s face flash in anger, obvious even through the mask.

This is a nightmare. The first time Peter’s gained a bit more trust, been invited to go upstairs, and now a mercenary is going to barge into the Boss’s office and it’s all his fault. Talk about fucking undercover investigations. This is part of what drives him crazy about Deadpool. The guy is all muscle, all show. He’s a hotshot where Peter is slow and deliberate. 

Their march down the hallway is anything but.

He doesn’t knock when they reach the office at the end of the corridor. Peter is tripping over himself, trying and failing to stop him from barging in, but it’s all for shit. The door bangs open with a slam that sends a small gust of air through the large office and Peter cringes.

Boss is someone every single person in the club knows better than to fuck with. Even Wren watches what she says around him. The guy has the single-handed power to end your career—and, if the rumors are to be believed—your life. Peter has had maybe two conversations with him the whole time he’s been here and every time, his presence made Peter’s skin crawl. His spidey-sense might be unpredictable but it’s never _wrong._ And it hates the Boss. 

The scene that greets them is an ugly one.

Boss is, as Deadpool so gently put it, currently getting his dick wet. At the intrusion, he straightens up, face red with what Peter dearly hopes is anger.

“Who the fuck is interrupting— _you,_ ” his voice drops from a roar to something furious and sinister as his gaze jumps from Deadpool to Peter, who’s standing behind him.

“I’m sorry—sir, I’m sorry, this is all a misunder—”

“Look at him,” Deadpool snarls, gesturing at Peter’s naked torso. “Those are _bruises._ I’m all for a bit of fun, but this is unacceptable. Don’t get it twisted, motherfucker. Not only can I burn this place to the ground, but I will also look good doing it.”

With a smooth motion that reminds Peter just how graceful Deadpool can be when he puts his mind to it, he unfurls one of his swords and dances through the office, blade outstretched. The woman who had been in between Boss’s legs yelps and hops away, her eyes flicking between Peter and Deadpool. 

Boss is not a man to be trifled with. Let’s be real—Peter’s been here for months and he still doesn’t know his name. His dark hair is slicked back, flat against his skull with the sheen of expensive gel. His suit is barely rumpled despite the activity he’s been partaking in. Clearing his throat, he taps the side of Deadpool’s blade with his ringed finger, raising an eyebrow at the mercenary. 

“No weapons are allowed in my place of business. I expect you take care of that accordingly, or I’ll have to ask you to leave,” his voice is like oil over white ceramic; all smooth and sticky at once. 

“I’m sorry, Boss, Sir,” Peter’s words stumble but he does his best to keep his voice even. Now is _not_ the time to lose control. “This has all been a big misunderstanding.”

“Did you explain to our . . . guest, here, that our clients pay for the privilege of not holding back?” The Boss continues, studying something on his phone. 

“Yes, sir,” Peter told him. “It’s being taken care of. Deadpool.” 

He hissed the last word, jerking his head back toward the door, eyes flashing. If he could just get the fucker to _understand._ More is at stake here than a few bruises that heal up by morning. A soft cough from the Boss reminds him that Deadpool’s not the only one watching him right now and he sighs heavily, collecting his thoughts. He can do this. He _can._

Arching his back, he runs a hand through his hair, messing it up delicately. He’s got to string them along. Both of them.

“I can explain everything,” Peter assures him, his eyes slipping from Deadpool to the Boss like honey into tea. _Don’t lose. No room for losing now._ “If you’d like to talk . . . privately,” he finishes demurely, all but fluttering his eyelashes at Deadpool. The giant man freezes, his languid strength stuttering across the muscles of his shoulders. 

“I can make that very enjoyable for you,” Peter promises. Maybe this can all work out better than he could have dreamed. Here’s a chance to prove to the Boss just how capable he is—and how committed to the cause. 

“Kid. . .” Deadpool trails off, sensing something is at play. _Yes,_ Peter begged silently. _Yes, fuck please, just this once, back off. Just this once._

“Does he look out of his element?” Boss cuts in, and for once, his voice gives Peter relief rather than a bubbling hatred. “I promise you, those bruises are nothing. And he can make it up to you.”

Peter nods instantly. “Yes,” he says in a low voice, trying to emulate the vibe he sees in videos sometimes. “I would love to make it up to you.”

Finally, finally, _finally,_ Deadpool lowers the sword and faces Peter.

“Then let’s go,” he agrees. There’s a strange quality to his voice but Peter’s too overwhelmed with release to care. He puts one massive hand on Peter’s bare shoulder and together, the two of them exit the office.

The second they’re back in the hallway, Deadpool pushes him away, tucking the two of them against a corner, hidden from view. 

“I don’t know what you’re playing at, kid, but I’m not buying that little act. I’m not leaving you to that fucker’s clutches. God, listen to me. _Clutches._ But you know what I mean. I won’t let you stay in his tiny-bastard-evil-fuckery hands. I know—I get that you’re, you’re scared, or whatever the fuck, but you can trust me, okay? I can protect you.”

The second Deadpool stops to take a breath, Peter decides he’s heard enough.

“You idiot,” Peter seethes, cutting him off instantly. “I don’t need _protection._ And I certainly don’t need someone looking out for me. Do you know what you could have cost me? What you could have ruined?”

He’s breathing heavier than he wants and he knows it’s obvious, knows Deadpool can see every heaving rib and spot of sweat on Peter’s body, but he can’t care about that right now. He slaps a hand against Deadpool’s chest, pushing him back against the wall. He’s not sure where this anger, this confidence, is brewing from but it comes pouring out. Aunt May’s dead. He’s been a _stripper_ for the last four months. He had to drop out of school almost a full year ago. 

He has no more fucks to give, least of all to someone as insufferably attractive and insane as Deadpool. 

“You need to mind your own business,” Peter says, locking his gaze with Deadpool’s mask. “I am not helpless. And I am not here for the money.”

It’s only half a lie. 

“I’m investigating this shit too,” he reveals before he can think better of it. “I have my own methods and they work a lot better when someone doesn’t break into my Boss’s office.”

Before he can second-guess what he’s done, Peter leans into the confidence a bit harder, brushing off invisible dust from Deadpool’s dumbstruck form. He leans up on his heels, mouth against where Deadpool’s ear is hiding beneath the mask. 

“So stay out of my fucking way,” he breathes. 

He’s back downstairs before his enhanced hearing catches Deadpool peeling himself off the wall but by then, the music is pounding and Peter’s settled back into his persona, booty shorts and all. 

Mercenaries or not, he’s going to get to the bottom of Brights Light Club. 

  
  
  



End file.
